Conan The Fearless (14 page)

The door might as well have been the side of a mountain for all it yielded. He backed away so that only the fingertips of one hand remained in contact with the door. He gathered his energies and jumped, slamming into the wooden barrier with his tensed shoulder, itself seeming no softer than the door when he connected. The door remained firm.

Conan took a deep breath, and his fists knotted unbidden into hammers. He was truly captured. He wanted to rage and pound upon the door for release, but he held his temper. Such a display would be foolish, and a waste of strength.

Instead, the brawny Cimmerian walked back to the platform upon which he had but recently awakened. He moved easily now in the darkness, as the dimensions of the cell were graven upon his consciousness. He sat upon the platform and leaned back against the wall, to wait.

The time that passed while Conan waited was but small, no more than an hour. A cavalcade of footsteps echoed down a hallway outside the Cimmerian’s cell; moments after he heard them, the door swung open. He held his pose, eyes slitted against the influx of torchlight that splashed into the small room. At least a dozen torches he saw, held by that many well-armed men. It would be foolish to think of attacking them barehanded.

Lemparius the Senator strode into the cell. “So,” he said, “you have finally awakened from your swoon. Good. I thought perhaps I might have struck too hard. Not that it matters, after all-it is not your brain which endears you to me, Conan of wherever.” Lemparius smiled. “Is not life strange? I sought to collect you, but you avoided such, dancing away like a flirtatious demi-vierge; now, now, you have come to me on your own. Find you that not amusing?”

Conan said nothing.

“Oh, dear. I hope I have not struck away your voice with my golden club.”

Conan glared at him. “So, it was you who sent that pack of cutthroats against me during the windstorm.” It was not a question.

“Indeed.” Lemparius’s smile never faltered.

“You should look to your help-they were ill-chosen fools.”

“It matters not, for you are now here, and mine. It is the end which is important, barbar.”

Conan nodded. That was true enough. He still breathed, was still sound of wind and limb; this was not yet ended.

“Surely, you wish to know why I have gone to such lengths to obtain your company?” Lemparius raised an eyebrow.

“Not particularly.” He would not give his tormentor the satisfaction of seeing him curious.

The senator’s smile dwindled slightly. “No? You do not care to know your fate, Conan of Barbaria? To know how you will spend the final moments of your existence?”

Conan measured the distance between himself and the man with a practiced eye. Likely, he could reach him before he was speared by Lemparius’s cohort. But the man was devilishly fast; if he could lure Lemparius a step closer, he would have a better chance.

Conan said, “I care only that the stench of my pen increased tenfold by your entrance, dog. Perhaps it is your diet of dung which offends me.”

Lemparius’s smile disappeared, replaced by a scowl. He made as if to step forward toward Conan. The Cimmerian shifted his weight slightly on the bench, preparing himself to move quickly.

Lemparius stopped, and smiled again. “Ah, am I a halfwit that I would allow myself to be tricked by such a simple ruse? Think again, barbar. And observe.” Lemparius waved his hand. A man came forward, to stand near the senator. Conan had not seen him, previously hidden behind the glare of the torches. The man bore a cocked crossbow, and the barbed head of the quarrel was aimed directly at Conan’s heart. Lemparius waved again, and a second man, armed like the first, came to stand on the opposite side. The cell was becoming crowded, Conan thought.

“Dalius here, to my left, is master of the arbalest, the finest marksman in all of Corinthia. He can pin a moving butterfly to a wall at ten paces. At this range I need merely call ‘left’ or ‘right’ and that would be the eye the bolt would skewer, pinning your head to the wall behind you.”

Lemparius waited a moment for that to sink in, then nodded to the second crossbowman. “Karlinos came to me from Brythunia, where he was the best with his weapon. While not quite the marksman Dalius is, he is second to none other-your remaining eye would be transfixed by his bolt before the first quarrel fully emerged.”

Conan relaxed against the wall. As he did so, he laughed loudly.

That Lemparius had gone to great lengths to capture him alive was apparent. While he knew not what plans the man had for him, he felt certain that death was not among them. Not just yet, anyway.

There came a female voice from behind the ranks of men. “He is the one.”

With the voice came a scent of an exotic perfume. The smell and voice triggered the memory of where Conan had known them before-in his room at the inn! It was the woman who had bewitched him. By Crom, what was afoot here?

Lemparius turned slightly toward the sound of the woman’s voice; Conan saw his chance. He gambled that the crossbowmen would not fire without a direct order. With hard contractions of his powerful frame Conan lunged. He had no real hope of killing Lemparius barehanded before he was clubbed down, but the satisfaction of landing one blow would be worth the effort. So Conan kicked, and the instep of his bare foot flew between Lemparius’s legs and smacked solidly into his groin. The man grunted and went dead-white, all Conan had time to see before he was once again sent to the land of throbbing mists.

“-shall cut his heart out myself!”

“Nay, he is mine now; you have given him to me.”

Conan’s sight had not yet returned, but his hearing was not lacking. He would have leaped up, save that he realized several things at once. He was no longer on the bench in the stinking cell, but rather on a soft cushion. He might possibly overhear something of use, did they still think him unconscious. And he was bound hand and foot with soft yet tight straps. So the Cimmerian feigned sleep and listened.

“-came you by him?” That was the voice of the woman; Djuvula, the senator had called her.

“Ah, I was … approached by a free agent, a scurrilous fellow named Loganaro. He offered to sell me the barbarian for a goodly sum.” That from Lemparius. And that name-where had he heard it? Loganaro … ah, yes, the fat man he had met in the nameless inn at the opposite foot of the Karpash Mountains.

Djuvula said, “Why should he do this? Of what use could a barbar be to you?” Conan could not see the woman’s face, but her voice fairly dripped with anger.

“Why, none, normally; however, Loganaro mentioned that you had some interest in such a man. I sought only to detain him for you. As a favor.”

“As a favor. I see. And what might you expect in return for this … favor?”

“Dear Djuvula, let us not speak to each other as merchants, of trading this for that. You owe me nothing for this barbarian lout, not a thing.”

There was a pause, in which Conan debated opening his eyes a mere slit. He decided to do so, but this only afforded him a view of some silken pink cushion, which blocked the speakers from his line of sight. He would have to move, and that might not be wise just yet. He strained against his bonds. but they held firm.

Lemparius continued speaking. “I would have things as they were between us before, dear lady.”

“You know such is impossible. I no longer engage in … those kinds of relations with ordinary menfolk.”

“Ah. but I have changed, Djuvula. I am more than I was.”

The woman laughed. “Surely you do not think my mantology so poor that I would not have noted the addition of your … change.’”

“Certainly. I meant no such slur upon your powers of divination, dear one. I merely meant that with my enhanced energies, I have a certain … vitality I lacked previously.”

Djuvula laughed again. “Not so much as my Prince, I would wager.”

“Perhaps. On the other hand, there is something to be said for technique over mere staying power, is there not?” Lemparius’s voice grew quieter. “I could keep you satisfied, lady. I know I could, given the chance.”

“I have known such men as you have become, Lemparius. l suspect you boast beyond your capabilities.”

“A chance, then. Surely, you have nothing to lose in granting me an opportunity to demonstrate my … capabilities? Should I fail. you would still have the clutter-muscled boy for your simulacrum. And if-nay, not ‘if,’ but ‘when’-l succeed. why there will be no need of your Prince.”

Another pause, this time of greater length. Conan sought to shift his body ever so slightly, so that he might see. but the cushion must have been as thick as a horse; it still blocked his vision with its pinkness!

“There is some merit in what you say, Lemparius,” Djuvula said. “Very well. Demonstrate your newfound prowess.”

“Here? Now?”

“Why not? Your men have battered the barbarian well enough so that he might sleep for a day; if he should wake, I would not be bothered by his watching. Unless you have scruples about such things?”

Lemparius laughed, but it sounded strained to Conan. “Hardly,” he said. “All right, then.”

There came a rustle of clothing to Conan’s sharp ears; he took the opportunity to shift a bit more on the cushions. Now he could see a bit of high ceiling and a wooden post; likely this post was part of some fancy bed upon which Conan lay trussed. Well, at least his hands were bound in front of his body, where he could get his teeth at the straps. He brought his hands toward his face very carefully and slowly, until the silken bindings were at his lips. He began to gnaw at the material, which tasted of dye. It would take some time to chew through, he knew.

“Set take this cursed barbarian!” Lemparius said loudly.

“Some problem, Lemparius?” Djuvula’s voice dripped with the sweetness of a beehive in spring.

“You can see very well there is! I am injured! That oaf kicked me! I-I feel a terrible pain when I try to-“

“A pity,” Djuvula cut in. “So much for your vitality-“

“Hardly a fair test, Djuvula! You must give me time to recover from my injury!”

“Must I?” The woman laughed. “Well, I suppose I can wait a few more days before animating my Prince of the Lance. I shall allow three evenings, Lemparius. Perhaps the barbarian can keep me entertained until then.”

“You mock me!”

“Nay, Lemparius. I would not trouble to do so; I merely please myself. The barbarian is a brave man, truly, and it is his heart I shall have, living in the chest of my Prince. Meanwhile, I generously give you and him three days.”

Conan had heard enough. He was to be sacrificed in some foul rite of magic! Abruptly, he sat up, and found himself seated on a bed next to a dead or unconscious black-skinned man of heroic proportions.

Lemparius and Djuvula lay on cushions near the bed. Both were unclothed. They turned to stare at Conan.

Conan brought his hands up in front of his face. He took a deep breath and expended it in a deep guttural yell. At the same time the young giant strained against the partially severed bonds on his wrists. Muscles rippled in his shoulders and back; sinews crackled and raised on his arms as he concentrated his entire being upon the straps binding him. Suddenly, the material gave way. There came a muffled snap, and his hands were free.

Lemparius cursed, leaped up, and scrabbled among his clothes for his knife. He found the curved weapon, jerked it from its scabbard, and turned toward the Cimmerian.

Conan grabbed up the silken cushion nearest his hand and flung it at Lemparius. It was soft, the cushion, but solid and thick. The pillow flew past Lemparius’s startled slash with the knife and knocked him backward. He stumbled and fell, landing smack upon his bare backside.

Wasting no time, Conan bent and tore the lashing from his ankles. As he finished he looked up, to see Lemparius recovered from his fall, already up and moving.

Conan sprang to meet Lemparius’s charge. Fast the man might be, but Conan was not slow; in an eyeblink the Cimmerian locked his powerful hands around the wrists of the senator. Conan turned his hip into the knee thrust at his groin, was met with the senator’s hip when he sought to bring his own knee into contact with the man’s already-tender scrotal parts. The two men fell, still locked together. Conan was the stronger, he knew, and it would be but a matter of a few moments for him to overcome the other man.

The thin hair of Lemparius’s wrists began to writhe under Conan’s palms. And some trick of the light made the straining senator seem suddenly plastic-featured; his face seemed somehow to be sinking … .

Crom! The man was no longer a man. but becoming a great beast! Fangs sprouted from his mouth, claws grew from his hands, and what had been Senator Lemparius now growled and tried to bite off Conan’s face.

He cursed and flung the half-man, half-cat away from him, using the thick muscles of his chest and arms to their fullest. The beast flew across the room to slam into the wall.

A werepanther! Conan knew there were men who wore such guises to become wolves, but he had never heard of one who became a cat. He did not like his chances against such an unnatural creature with only his bare hands. And it was said that human weapons could not harm a wereman. It would not have helped if he had a sword, which he did not.

The panther rebounded from the wall and landed upon its feet. It turned and snarled, a throaty roar that sounded all too loud in the closed room. Slowly, the beast began to pad toward Conan. He would swear the cat smiled as it moved.

A weapon, he needed a weapon! Conan looked around quickly, but there was no-ah, wait! Lemparius’s curved knife lay near Conan’s bare foot. He bent and snatched up the knife. Armed, he felt better.

“You must not kill him!” Djuvula screamed.

Conan glanced at her, but she spoke to the panther, not to him The cat ignored the woman’s imprecation. But when the Cimmerian extended the wickedly curved knife toward him, the werepanther stopped his forward padding and snarled.

Conan spared a glance from the beast for the knife. Perhaps since this knife belonged to Lemparius, it might be more than it seemed. He might damage the beast.

With Conan, the thought was oft as the deed; he leaped toward the werepanther, slashing. The beast gave ground even as it struck out with its own sharp claws, batting at him, but missing. The big Cimmerian saw he was within a few steps of the door to the bedchamber. Time to depart. He cut the curved knife through the air to keep the panther at bay as he backed toward the exit. The beast snarled, but would not come close enough to strike.